I nod. “You cook for me.”
The room goes silent in a different way. Not the humming-light way. A held-breath way. Francesca blinks like I spoke another language. Bianca just watches.
“Not at a party you’re catering for us,” I add. “Not at Regalia. For me. My house. My table. My guests when I have them. Private chef. Full-time. As in you pick menus and you run my kitchen.Morning through dinner. My pantry. My schedule.” I let the words settle in them. “In exchange, I take a bigger bite out of what’s left, faster.”
Francesca finds her voice first. “Wha— No,” she says firmly.
“Mama,” Bianca says, eyes still on me.
“Absolutely not,” Francesca says anyway.
“How long?” Bianca asks.
“Three months,” I say.
“Thr—” Francesca starts, then sucks in a sharp breath. “No, you have a restaurant to run, Bibi.”
I know that’s not the real issue, but I address it anyway.
“It’s been running without her,” I say, and that is more blunt than I intended. I look to Bianca, not Francesca. “You were in Italy. You have cooks. You have a mother who knows this place better than anyone living. You stepping away for three months doesn’t burn the place down.”
“Three,” Francesca repeats in disbelief.
“A target,” I say. “Maybe four. Maybe two and a half if the opportunity arises.” I turn back to Bianca. “You want the ‘done’ you asked me for? You can have it this way. Clear as glass. Youfeed me on my schedule. You bank the weekly plus a chunk, and you walk out with this finished and a ledger that reads zero.”
Bianca’s hands press into her knees like she’s holding herself down in the chair.
Francesca shakes her head, already halfway out of it. “No. She has a life. She leaves again for Italy soon.”
Bianca doesn’t even look at her. “Do you always make offers like this?” she asks me.
“No.”
“Why make this one?”
I tell the truth. “Because you’re good.”
“How do you know that?” she asks.
“Last night,” I start, “you didn’t touch a pan. Didn’t taste a dish. Didn’t cook a thing. And yet… Service was smoother, faster. People’s backs straightened when you passed. Your approval was sought, even when you refused to give it. I don’t have that in my house.” A beat. “I’d like it.”
Her throat moves. She glances at her mother, then back. “You don’t even know what I cook.”
“I know enough,” I say simple.
“What’s the catch?” Bianca asks.
“No catch,” I say. “You work. I credit. You can come in here on Sundays, if I don’t need you for something. But Monday through Saturday, you’re mine.” I hold her eyes for the next part. “When I call, you answer.”
Francesca bristles. “She’s not a—”
“A caterer,” I finish for her. “No. A chef. You don’t want the hours; you say no. But you wanted dates and opportunities. I’m giving you one.”
Francesca breaks first. “She’s got a job. In Italy. She’s supposed to go back.”
“Supposed to,” Bianca says, still not looking away from me.
Francesca shuts her eyes. “Bianca—”
